


The Nobodies

by animalboything



Category: South Park
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5542472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animalboything/pseuds/animalboything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were the forgotten ones, the nobodies. They were average boys with average ambitions. Prom nears as isolation strikes Clyde Donovan and his indifferent leader disintegrates.</p>
<p>Originally posted on FF.net under the name Grando181, but heavily edited since then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nobodies

People said South Park, Colorado was unlike any other place on Earth, yet no one seemed capable of answering the inevitable question: why? Buildings burned to the ground, celebrities appeared and transformed into giant mecha, and a boy consistently died only to become reincarnated days later receiving little to no recollection of his absence. He was invisible, a forbidden whisper. Should the name would become known, the reminiscence of rebirth, he would disappear. Forever.

The boy who called death went by the name of Kenny McCormick, the poorest kid in town and categorical white trash. He was part of a quartet, an inseparable group of youths consisting of Stan Marsh—the overly emotional, asthmatic, athletic Catholic, sexual orientation unknown—people who cared: absolutely zero; Kyle Broflovski—the combative, self-righteous, afro-ed Jew; and Eric Cartman—the psychological lovechild of Hitler, Mussolini, Saddam Hussein, and Stalin. They formed the four corners of a square, that is until Leopold “Butters” Stotch, the transfer boy from the South, moved in, breaking the delicate cycle of friends as he often replaced Kenny or Cartman. Stan and Kyle were inseparable. Period. Needless to say, things became more bizarre with the addition of Butters to the group, at least from the center of town.

Unlike Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny, another group of boys formed ionic bonds, often shifting their orbits from clique to clique though inseparable else wise. They were the forgotten ones, the nobodies—average boys with average ambitions.

The permanent member, and unnamed leader, was Craig Tucker, the only boy in town whose physique matched, if not bettered, the dubbed ‘gorgeous’ Stan Marsh. Both boys had black hair and played sports, unable to avoid their family’s peer pressure about it. But, unlike Stan, Craig’s attractiveness was kept in a kettle—no one noticed until their feelings boiled over the top. Only a few had gotten to the reaching point, which either inflated Craig’s ego or brought blankness.

“I like you. A lot,” Bebe had mustered the courage to say.

“Oh. Okay.” He replied.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” she said, offering a kind smile. “Not a yes or no?”

“To what?”

Counter offer. Passive aggressiveness. Unflinching eyes. A plea to not cross that line, though Bebe was confident, crossing the border without hesitation.

“Would you go out with me? We could have an awfully good time.”

A finger tick, a moment where it lifted subtly before dropping nearly as quickly as it rose. Bebe’s face flushed and her head turned aside.

“You don’t have to be a dick about it; I can handle a no.”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“You flipped me off!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did! Are you calling me blind?”

“I didn’t—”

“I get the point, okay? You don’t want to go out with me. I’m fine, okay?” Her burning cheeks coloured to the deepest shade of rose. Craig extended his hand to her cheek, tried to figure out how to say he was sorry, but she withdrew.

“I’m asexual,” Craig tried to explain after a moment’s deliberation, face betraying no sign of emotion as his hands lifted, dropping into the back pockets of his jeans. Because the same thing would happen with Bebe the way it happened with everyone else: she left.

Because no one could get that asexuality was real. That it was something tangible. That it didn’t mean he couldn’t crush, but he usually didn’t. That he didn’t lust naturally. 

The whispers of asexuality and Craig’s disinterest followed him down the hallways in floating whispers as if they were a disease, hushing only when the boy would turn his head to gaze lest they contract the illness. 

Craig never seemed to notice.

Craig was a good actor.

***

Craig was the sense of reason, the keystone to the temple. He was indifferent, the one with an aggressive family much paralleling the Marsh boy’s as they filled their bellies with booze, cussed, swung fists, and raised fingers at one another, but despite their dysfunction, Craig never complained. He was the desensitized one.

Residing as the dominant force, Craig had his disciples. There was Token, the sole black student in South Park who changed his last name to “Black” when it used to be Williams. Because it was South Park, because that’s what people did. His penname, his stage name, a testimony to his heritage—no one was certain why the change occurred or when, but he was too much of a nobody for anyone to ask. Wealthy, he prided himself in Armani Expo, elaborate science projects, and his uncanny ability to spell. 

Another disciple was a boy named Jimmy Swanson, or Vogler as it was changed after his parents’ sudden divorce. The boy was often found near Craig, enlightening everyone with his jokes, empathy, and altruistic nature. The boys had grown to not notice his incessant stutter, or how his feet dragged behind his body when attempting to walk, metal legs of his crutches clanging against the ground. No one brought up his disabilities—it was against the rules. No one brought up his disabilities—it didn’t matter. Maybe to the somebodies, it would, but to the nobodies, they were equal. 

On occasion, Craig firmly insisted, to no protest, that they include the Tweek kid—the nobody that _no one_ seemed to remember except Craig, or again his counterpart, Stan Marsh. As the years progressed and the boys developed into teenagers, Tweek lagged behind. His hair still stood out on end, he still couldn’t button his shirts correctly. He still saw gnomes and other terrors of the night, and he still drank coffee. Maturing to only five-foot-three-inches, he was the smallest of the boys in the class, weighing in at a sickly one-hundred-and-three pounds. He was often the forgotten boy, the “Tweeked Out Kid,” passing through the hallway with a bottle of cough syrup, packet of caffeine pills, or a glass bottle of Harbucks Frappuchino. 

And last, there was Clyde Donovan.

Clyde had gravitated toward leaders, admiring Cartman, Stan, and Craig like no other. Though, like the other nobodies, he was tugged into the backdrop, eventually choosing Craig to become his permanent leader, his God. Clyde stuck to Craig’s side, passing along every good deed the boy did from an experimental film project to a new haircut. Stan hadn’t noticed the absence of his once-devotee, but the ever-conceited Cartman did; Clyde tried to ignore the ever increasing coincidences of Cartman fueling his friends against Craig, going out of their way to make the boy jealous.

Clyde hated to admit that Cartman was a more powerful influence than the subtle and generally soft-spoken Craig would ever be.

***

When it was a weekend, Clyde was often invited to Craig’s house for sleepovers, often times with the other boys and sometimes alone. He confided his secrets with the other, insecurities that plagued him. Self-consciousness, sharing his woes as he used to cry to his mother while eating a pint of Rocky Road ice cream before she died. Unlike Craig and the boys in his group, Clyde was stocky. He feared becoming ‘the fat kid’ knowing fully well that he wouldn’t have the balls Cartman did to become “THE FAT KID,” but rather instead “THE FAT CRYBABY,” and he did crunches every morning and evening to make sure his gut didn’t protrude too far ahead of his waistband. Despite diet after diet, he never became as trim as Craig. When protesting to take off his shirt at his family’s pool one summer, Craig had only shrugged.

 

“You look good, Clyde,” he said, eyes scanning the other’s form. “I need to bulk up. Maybe my Dad can get a Nordic Track or Smith machine or something. You could run while I life weights, or something if you want. But I think you look fine.”

“You sure? I mean, that I look fine? You always look good. I don’t think you’d need to work out at all,” Clyde fumbled over his reply. Craig grunted, raising a hand before his middle finger lifted to the sky in salute. He then would climb up the plastic siding to the pool, balancing on the thin, white railing.

“You need better esteem,” he said before leaping into the water and sending water up into the air with the splash.

***

Boys will be Boys, maturity often hidden in drawers as the males got together amusing themselves with the latest Tony Hawk game and “Girls Gone Wild: Spring Break.” Sometimes, often by Craig or Jimmy’s suggestion, the boys played sleepover games—Truth or Dare the most popular, even if the most dated. For someone as disinterested as Craig to suggest the game, his disciples never countered or argued. Unanimous agreement. Craig’s face would light up at the mention of the game, clearly developed questions formulating for the players even before it officially started. It was his pride and joy, his entertainment.

The boys didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was a bit old to be playing Truth or Dare, that the royalty had died upon entering high school—especially at all-boys’ sleepovers that lacked alcohol per Craig’s insistence, per not wanting to be like his father. They smiled and obeyed, everything worthwhile just to see Craig smile. 

It was one of those nights when Craig’s dare went too far when Clyde stripped, cheeks flushed red as he held a giant sombrero that Craig’s father had won at a carnival over his crotch, clumsily dancing to the Mexican Hat Dance emanating from Craig’s cell phone. Jimmy had turned on Craig’s webcam, aiming it toward the boy with the intent of recording it.

The boys hadn’t realized that Craig’s choice of messenger—yahoo—would display a “view my webcam” button, and soon enough Clyde’s dance was on display for Red, who informed Wendy to download messenger immediately, who told Stan, who told Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny, until Craig’s cell phone rang, blaring a polysynthetic “Mogwai Fear Satan” in corruption of the hat dance. Clyde stopped moving as Craig waved his hand, signaling silence as he pressed “yes” and drew the phone to his ear.

“What’s up, Token?” he said, a set ring tone for every friend.

“Dude, turn the webcam fucking off!” the boy yelled. “I so did _not_ need to see that. The whole student body’s talking about it.”

“Craig—what’s going on?” Clyde had asked, shifting the sombrero to further cover his crotch. Craig didn’t answer, merely walking behind Jimmy’s shoulder as he stooped over, studying the computer screen.

“Gee, now, Craig… s-s-see… seems you’re getting a lot of messages-”

“You were signed on?!” Clyde had yelled, tears springing to the corners of his eyes. Craig’s smile broadened, white teeth glinting in a broad grin as he leaned close to the webcam, drawing a hand near his face before his middle finger elevated. 

Fuck you.

Craig hadn’t laughed so hard in years.

***

Most towns had an adequate array of teachers for higher education—South Park, Colorado was an exception to the rule. Not expecting its students to graduate past sixth grade, the town was unprepared for the class of 2006 to go the whole nine yards. The town scrambled together holding debate after debate until the final, unanimous decision was made for the most adequate faculty to teach the high school students.

This faculty was mostly composed of the same teachers that taught the students in elementary school.

The students howled as they entered their English class to discover Mr. Garrison, knowing it would be a fucked up year from the start. Their classes changed and still Garrison was there, scolding and reprimanding the youths for everything, slamming egos. Nothing had changed other than respective age.

It was during the beginning of Senior year that Tweek became the hot topic of conversation. 

Garrison set up the school year into segments, ignoring the concept of more than one subject being taught per day. He insisted on Creative Writing as a way for the students to “express their feelings in really crappy stories and poems that people with botched frontal lobotomies would adore;” Garrison never expected any of the students to actually be good. 

Cartman had gone to the front of the class first with his poem “10 Things I Hate about Jews.” It was received well by everyone except for Kyle and Stan, the poem’s two targets. Garrison gave Cartman an F with the explanation that parodies were only funny if the original source wasn’t taken from “the crappiest teen movie ever made.” 

Clyde passed a note to Cartman. “You were brilliant,” he wrote.

“I know.” A two word reply. 

Garrison went through the list, slamming Craig’s three-sentence poem about being indifferent for being too stupid and emo, attacking Wendy for her adventure story, and fell asleep during Pip’s fifteen minute traditionally British poem. Clyde was prepared to speak when Tweek rose to his feet, hands trembling as he offered to recite. Clyde nodded his head toward the front of the class, giving leeway to the shaking boy who had never offered to publicly speak in the ten years he knew him.

Sweat formed on the boy’s brow as he opened a tattered red spiral notebook. “There aren’t metaphors really,” he said, voice hitching before his eyes lowered to his work.  
__  
Here, have some coffee—you’ll feel so much better.  
This is natural for boys like you.  
Shh, it’s okay, trust me—you’ll feel better.  
We’ll feast upon you at the table, a silent demand to go upstairs.  
Get in your blue pajamas, the witching hour tolls.  
We’ll call you by your last name.  
No one can hurt you that way.  
Shh, boy, it’s alright. Don’t worry about impassiveness.  
We’ll take the stairs two at a time.  
We’ll noiselessly open and close the door.  
It’s just ADD. ADHD.  
Would you like some more coffee?  
Liquid methamphetamine  
Messed up, mad angel boy  
That’s a good boy, now swallow.  
Hushabye little boy.  
Hushabye, small child.  
You’ll start to feel better now.  
Just pretend and close your eyes  
Brandon? Brandon?  
Wait, don’t you remember us?  
It'll only hurt a little bit, boy.  
It'll only hurt awhile, child.  
You’ll go by Tweek now.  
Don’t tell anyone.  
You’re crying.  
Behave or the gnomes will steal your clothes.  
It’ll hurt a lot.  
Tell anyone, I’ll kill you.  
What a smart boy, what a good boy  
Here, have another coffee.  
Why aren’t you sleeping? You should be asleep by now.

 

The classroom fell silent before the notebook fell from the blond’s fingers as he pressed the palms of his hands to his ears, face contorting. “STOP IT! STOP IT!” 

“Hey Tweek, are you okay?” Clyde asked, but the boy kept screaming. 

“Stop it! Stop it! Please stop it!” 

Clyde put his hands on the edge of his desk to stand, but Craig was already walking down the aisle blocking his path. Craig wrapped his arms around the screaming boy’s shoulders drawing him into his chest. 

“Me too,” he said softly, a hand rising to stroke through the tangled and wild locks. “Me too.” 

Garrison didn’t interrupt, keeping silent as he observed the embrace while the blond boy’s body began to slow, trembles dying until only his hands shook as they always did. 

It was the first time that Clyde realized his God had a nightmare. Craig was scarred. He shared a secret with someone else, a person other than Clyde, himself. And, horrible as it was, Clyde hated Tweek for that.

No one questioned when Craig brought Tweek to their lunch table that day and the day after. They were the talk of the school. They weren’t nobodies anymore. 

People tried to sit at Craig’s table searching for invites but he shook his head. “You didn’t give a crap before,” he said firmly then motioned toward Jimmy, Token, Clyde, and Tweek. “They’re my friends. Always.”

***

Seasons passed, Fall bringing the heavy fall of snow that accompanied Winter while rain washed the snow away into the budding leaves of Spring. The school buzzed with hung posters, glittery letters spelling the words: SENIOR PROM. Committees were formed, ballot boxes manned for the Prom King and Queen. The fact that prom was occurring drew attention away from the nobodies, Tweek’s breakdown nearly forgotten with the newer gossip.

It was meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy day in the cafeteria when Kyle Broflovski kissed Stan Marsh on the mouth. 

The two had stood in the line to get their food when Cartman had complained about them taking too much time to fill their trays.

“Dude, this stuff totally isn’t Kosher,” Kyle protested, face paling and nose wrinkling as a heaping spoonful of white mass was dumped onto his plate. 

“See, that’s why I hate Jews,” Cartman groaned, shaking his head. “Nothing’s ever good enough for you. Kosher this, Kosher that. Fuck, you know if it’s American it’s got to be good. That’s what Dubya Bush said when he was president, and he was dope.” 

“You’re actually thinking about what that baboon who somehow became president said?” Kyle retorted with an amused smirk. “He’s so not Kosher.”

“Of course he wasn’t gonna be hella Kosher! People aren’t Kosher. If they were, there’d be too many happy Jews. Fucking Jews, almost as bad as hippies.”

“Stop knocking on my religion, fat ass,” he retorted sharply. “I’ll have you know that I am _very_ happy and I know something that’s _very_ Kosher to me,” Kyle said, turning his head to the side. He brushed his hand against Stan’s cheek then, without warning, pulled Stan into a kiss. 

The sound in the cafeteria seemed to cease with the kiss, bustling again only when it was broken and Stan squeezed Kyle’s shoulder.

“I think Cartman’s made of pork—let’s find somewhere else to sit. C’mon Kenny,” Stan said. As if nothing transpired, Kenny walked past Cartman and moved alongside the two boys as they abandoned their overweight leech in favor of sitting at the table next to Craig’s. 

Craig had observed them quietly, head turned to the side as he watched with a mild interest. “So they’re really going to prom?” he started, though the question dripped with his rhetoric. 

“W-w-well it certainly seems like it,” Jimmy had replied, bringing a fork speared with a piece of the meatloaf to his mouth. “I’m personally v-very happy f-for them.” 

“It’s kind of weird,” Token had murmured. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m not phobic or anything but I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe from Kyle but not Stan-”

“No,” Tweek had cut in, head shaking from the right to the left in a rapid succession. “The other way around, gah. Stan had all the signs. Always.” His last word was strained, voice rumbling as his eyes squeezed shut. Trembling fingers closed around the glass bottle of Harbucks Frappuchino before the bottle was shakily brought to his mouth. 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Clyde had asked, leaning forward to glance at Tweek from the other side of Craig. 

“Not hungry,” he replied, tilting the bottle back as he sipped at the sweet liquid. 

Craig’s eyes hadn’t left the table next to his. With reluctance, he turned his head away and studied the large poster on the wall.

“Maybe I’ll go to Prom,” he started abruptly, decidedly. 

His lunch table fell silent.

***

Clyde had attended every single Anime meeting Craig held, often joined by Token, Kevin, Red, and Bebe. Craig had started the club as an extracurricular activity and had been president throughout high school. The club had matured from “Red Racer” to “Gundam Wing” to “Ah! My Goddess” to “Fushigi Yuugi” to “Fullmetal Alchemist” to “Burst Angel” to “Naruto” to “Excel Saga” among the many others. Craig brought in a new series at every meeting, bootlegged more often than not. He varied the genres in an attempt to be fair to all the club’s attendees though he preferred the action series.

Clyde liked the _shoujo_ style and fantasy series. 

Clyde refrained from squealing in delight as Craig brought in “Fruits Basket” and “Chobits” in hopes of keeping any form of dignity as a man. He had become teary-eyed in “Serial Experiments Lain.” He couldn’t keep from laughing in “Kyou Kara Maoh!” 

Anime club was one of the activities at school that Clyde looked forward to doing with Craig and the nobodies. It was their domain—the land where they reigned. The forgotten ones would bask in this sovereignty, this land they possessed.

Dynamic changed when Kyle and Stan had entered the room for club while they had been discussing creating a fan dub.

“Hey,” Stan started, hand closed in Kyle’s. The boy held a plastic bag in his free hand, the outline of boxes and series visible through its translucent siding.

“Can we join the club?” Kyle had finished. 

Clyde’s lower lip tensed as he glanced to Craig. 

Craig rubbed his hands together, before he cleared his throat. “Everyone’s welcome. What’d you bring?” 

“A bunch of stuff. ‘Evangelion,’ ‘Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex,’ ‘Zoids,’ and ‘Paranoia Agent’,” Kyle began.

“Oh, and ‘Samurai Champloo’! It’s funny as hell.” Stan interjected.

“Generic—figures you’d like it,” Craig said, nodding as he motioned for the two to sit down in any of the empty desks. “You should talk with Clyde. He’d probably recommend some stuff you’d like, Stan.”

Clyde had never felt so proud to be acknowledged, nor had he smiled so broadly as when Stan took the empty desk next to his, followed closely by Kyle.

***

Garisson took pride in the strangest assignments he created for his students—extending upon creative writing, he asked the students to find songs that defined the up and coming prom and who they were. Love songs, angst songs, it didn’t so much matter. The point was emphasized that they would be graded in accordance to Garisson’s opinion of the song as well because if it was crap he would give the students F’s. Wendy Testaburger had protested loudly stating that everyone had their taste and shouldn’t be graded in accordance to that—Garisson didn’t care. Number of people surprised: zero.

The students were to use the rest of the day researching lyrics and finding copies of their expressive songs. When given the leeway to research, the bulk of the students took the opportunity to write about anything _other_ than their prospective assignment, many of the students wanting to “wing it” with their iPods and memory, using their favorite songs rather than introspective ones.

Craig had led his group of friends to the computer lab and let out a disappointed sigh as Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, and Wendy were already there. He moved to the set of computers opposite the other’s side, Clyde and Tweek sitting on each side of him, and to their sides were Jimmy, Token, and Kevin. 

“How reflexive is it supposed to be exactly?” Stan Marsh’s voice sounded drawing any possible attention that may have formed around the nobodies to him. 

“Garisson just wants an excuse to listen to music during class so I’d doubt he’d take it too seriously-” Kyle began.

“You guys really should at least make an attempt,” Wendy added, eyes scrolling down a list of lyrics. “I think I’ve already found one for me.”

“Is it called ‘I’m the Hippie Queen and I’m in love with a Libertarian’?” Cartman snorted. 

“No, you moron,” she snapped. “It’s called ‘I Wish I Were a Punk Rocker’ by Sandy Thom and-”

_“I wish I were a punk rocker with flowers in my hair-”_ Cartman started, eyes turned as he read down her computer screen. “How does that have to do with Prom? Gay.”

The female had grabbed her pen and chucked it at Cartman who narrowly avoided the hit. “AY~! Damn it, ho.”

The flying utensil soared across the room hitting Craig in the back of the head. The nobodies had offered a retrospective gasp as they turned around, following their leader’s move. Craig rose to his feet, scowled, and raised his middle finger. 

“Ay~! Don’t flip me off, Craig. It was that hippie bitch who threw it, not me!”

“Don’t call me a hippie bitch, fat ass!” she snarled.

“I’ll call you whatever the hell I want and don’t call me fat ass, ho!”

“Don’t call me a whore, you butt pipe!”

“Jesus, don’t you two ever shut up?” Craig snapped, interrupting the pair’s quarrel with a single question. “You’re fighting with her more than with Kyle. It’s annoying. Just make out and ask each other to prom and get it the fuck over with.” 

Craig shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans leaving Wendy’s face to flush, Stan and Kyle’s jaws to visibly drop, Kenny to grip his sides from laughter, and Cartman to splutter. 

“Wh-huh-I-God damn it, Craig! Don’t compare Wendy to that effin’ Jew! You’re making me sound _funny_ or something! And… and…” the boy stalled, large fingers curling over his sweaty palms with an anxiety—entrapment. “And fuck you, Craig! You’re one to talk! You’ve been bringing your little butt buddies with you everywhere—why don’t _you_ ask someone to prom? Huzzah!” 

Craig had gazed at the boy complacently before his head lowered in the faintest of a nod. “I was planning on it.” 

“I knew it—what?” Cartman was floored, eyes widening the size of saucers with the unexpected answer.

Clyde’s fingers closed over the edge of his knee, fingernails digging just below his kneecap. Interest piqued from the bulk of the room, his torso inclined forward with a burning curiosity of who could have actually drawn a second glance from the boy let alone intrigued the impartial male. Craig going to Prom? Craig going to Prom _with_ someone? Maybe it was wrong to be surprised—asexuality didn’t mean immunity to feelings. Sexuality in general wasn’t tied in a box. 

But…

Craig removed his hands from the back pockets of his jeans, tugging once at the waist band before his hands fell. His eyes scanned over Wendy’s face then traveled slowly by Stan’s before he turned around. He gazed at Clyde for a moment, eyes softening for a moment before his head turned.

“Hey, Tweek?”

The name was so quiet it was nearly inaudible though the follow up of a squeak from the blond pierced the thick silence. 

“Come with me to prom?” Craig asked, voice steady and deep. 

Tweek’s head jerked to the side, right eye blinking in a rapid succession amidst the collective gasp of the others. Hands never ceasing from trembling, he fumbled. “O-okay, I guess.” 

Craig nodded and sat in between Tweek and Clyde, fingers moving to the keyboard of his computer without so much a ‘thank you,’ ‘that’s great,’ or ‘I’m so happy’. Or anything. 

Clyde’s eyes lowered to his lap. The sensation of a broadening space between him and his God seemed to loom ahead. 

Craig, the asexual, had just asked someone to prom. Someone he liked.

Craig, the asexual, had just asked a boy to prom.

Craig, the asexual, had asked _Tweek_ to prom.

Clyde’s kicked the computer desk’s leg so hard the printer came free from its table and hit Kenny in the face.

***

“All right kids,” Garisson said. “Let’s see what lame excuses for personal reflective songs you’ve come up with.” The collective groan of the class seemed as much an indication to their dismay. “Oh come on. Someone volunteer to go first, and if you don’t, I’ll choose someone. So let’s see…”

“Please pick Kyle or Stan, please pick Kyle or Stan,” Cartman chanted under his breath.

“Cartman, stop being such a jerk just because you didn’t do your homework,” Kyle snapped.

“AY~! Shut up, Hippie-Jew!”

“Eric! Kyle! Shut the hell up!” Garisson snapped, arms folding. “All right, let’s have Stan go first since you two are being such little gaywads.”

“Thank you, Jesus!” Cartman proclaimed, rising to his feet as his hands lifted above his head. He coughed twice before returning to his seated position, offering a thumbs up in Stan’s general direction. Stan rose to his feet, hand closed onto his hand scribbled page of lyrics.

“I chose Placebo’s ‘I’ll Be Yours,’ because it reflects Kyle,” he started, pausing as he rubbed the back of his neck.  
__  
“I'll be your water bathing you clean,  
The liquid piece.  
I'll be your ether; you'll breathe me in.  
You won't release.  
Well, I've seen you suffer; I've seen you cry the whole night through.  
So I'll be your water bathing you clean,  
Liquid blue.

_I'll be your father, I'll be your mother, I'll be your lover, I'll be yours.  
I’ll be your father, I’ll be your mother, I’ll be your lover, I’ll be yours._

_I'll be your liquor bathing your soul,_  
Juice that's pure.  
And I'll be your anchor you'll never leave,  
Shores that cure.  
Well, I've seen you suffer, I've seen you cry for days and days.  
So I'll be your liqour demons will drown  
And float away. 

_I'll be your father, I'll be your mother, I’ll be your lover, I’ll be yours._  
I'll be your father, I'll be your mother, I’ll be your lover, I’ll be yours.  
I’ll be your father, I’ll be your mother, I’ll be your lover, I’ll be yours.” 

As his last sentence was enunciated, his teacher’s eyes rolled. “I don’t mean to sound like a prissy pants, but that’s just gay. You get a C+.”

“What? I spent a lot of time on this! Weak, dude. Weak,” Stan murmured, head shaking as he walked back to his seat and sank down next to Kyle. 

“Hey, I thought it was nice,” Kyle said, smile playing on his lips.

“Thanks,” Stan said. He couldn’t help but return the smile.

 

“Are there anymore gay songs that we can get done and over with?” Garisson complained, arms folding over the same protuberance over the reconstructed chest. 

Craig rose to his feet and slipped through the aisles, a quirked brow earned as he unfolded a printed page of lyrics. 

“Underworld. ‘Born Slippy’,” he declared. His eyes scanned the rows of students before it paused by Tweek’s desk.

_“Drive boy, dog boy,_  
Dirty, numb, angel boy  
In the doorway, boy.  
She was a lipstick boy.  
She was a beautiful boy,  
and tears boy,  
and all in your inner space, boy.  
You had hands, girl-boy  
And steel boy.  
You had chemicals, boy.  
I’ve grown so close to you, boy.  
And you just groan, boy.  
She said come over, come over,  
She smiled at you, boy. 

_Let your feelings slip, boy._  
But never your mask, boy.  
Random blond, bio, high density, rhythm blond boy  
Blond country, blond high density.  
You are my drug, boy.  
You’re real, boy.  
Speak to me and boy, dog.  
Dirty, numb, cracking boy.  
You get wet, boy.  
Big, big time boy.  
Acid bear boy.  
Babes and babes and babes and babes and babes  
And remembering nothing, boy.  
You like my tin horn, boy, and get wet like an angel.  
Derail. 

_You got a velvet mouth,_  
You’re so succulent and beautiful.  
Shimmering and dirty,  
Wonderful and hot times  
On your telephone line  
And God and everything  
On your telephone  
And in walk an angel… 

_And look at me._  
Your mom squatting pissed in a tube-hole at Tottenham Court Road.  
I just come out of the ship  
Talking to the most blond I ever met.  
Shouting, “Lager, lager, lager, lager!”  
Shouting, “Lager, lager, lager, lager!”  
Shouting, “Mega, mega white thing!”  
“Mega, mega white thing!”  
“Mega, mega white thing!”  
“Mega, mega…!”  
Shouting, “Lager, lager, lager, lager!”  
“Mega, mega white thing!”  
“Mega, mega white thing!”  
So many things to see and do in the tube hole, true.  
Blond going back to Romford.  
Mega, mega, mega going back to Romford.  
Hi Mom, are you having fun?  
And now are you on your way to a new tension headache?” 

It took a moment of silence before Garisson seemed to process that the lyrics were complete and Tweek had launched out of his seat, arms wrapped tightly around Craig’s shoulders, rising onto his toes and pressed his lips to Craig’s.

Clyde stiffened up, watching as Craig’s arms awkwardly moved to the side in hesitation before he embraced the other, kissing back. By an unspoken instinct, both boys pulled away from each other and the tug of gravitation. “You understand,” Tweek said.

“I do,” Craig had replied.

“I love you,” Tweek whispered. 

Craig paled and nodded with closed lips. 

“W-well, that was… interesting,” Garisson started, hand lifting to readjust the brim of his thick-rimmed glasses. “Ah… uh… maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” he started, voice breaking before a short continuation. “Ah, maybe… well, everyone I guess can get A’s for the assignment and ah… class is dismissed for today.”

 

The jarring murmurs of the students were heavy and grating as desk chairs were shoved backward and the students filed out of the classroom. Clyde had lingered in the classroom, stalled in front of the teacher’s desk.

“I’d like to read mine,” he said softly.

“Look Clyde, class is over. You don’t have to read.”

“I know, Mr. Garisson…. I just,” his voice cut off, face contorting as he squinted. 

“Oh Jesus, don’t start crying on me now,” Garisson complained. “Fine. Go ahead. Read it for all I care.” 

But by the time Garisson’s head lifted, Clyde had already left the room.

***

Three weeks before Prom, Craig invited Clyde to his house for a sleepover. Upon entering, Clyde was mildly surprised that Tweek wasn’t there, or any of the others. Craig led them to his room after grabbing two bottles of pop. Birch beer.

Clyde’s fingers closed over one of the bottles before he pressed his palm to the jagged top and pressed down, twisting until it came free. The spicy liquid slid down his throat as mouth to the glass bottle was placed against his chapped lips. 

“Are you going to prom?” Craig asked, his bottle set down as he fished through the drawer on his bedside table; his hand slid it shut after he palmed a bottle of allergy and sinus medication.

“Oh… no. I don’t think so,” the boy started. “I mean, I have no one to go with.”

“Did you ask anyone?”

“No,” he replied truthfully.

“You should,” Craig said, thumb pressing back the cap to his medicine. Two pills slid forth and he put them on his tongue, swallowing them with the tangy Birch beer. “I was thinking of maybe renting a limo. You know, for you, me, Tweek, Token, Jimmy, Kevin. I saved up a lot of money shoveling snow this winter.” 

“Oh,” Clyde said, bottle abandoned on the floor as he sat on the edge of Craig’s bed. His foot traced along the carpet before his head lifted. “Am I going to be the third wheel?” 

“What? No! Why the hell would you think that?” Craig asked, eyes widening in resemblance of saucers. Clyde held the gaze, the moment of shock on his best friend’s face.

He caught him off-guard.

He caught Craig unprepared.

And God, that moment was everything. 

“…I’ll go,” Clyde replied softly, smoothly changing the subject. Craig’s shoulders lowered, the poised tenseness waning. 

“Thank you,” Craig said. Then Craig tapped Clyde on the shoulder, the broadest of smiles playing on his face to replace any concern. “Hey Clyde, truth or dare?”

***

“You’re hopeless, Stan,” Kyle had laughed loudly upon the end credits for ‘Cat Soup’ in anime club. His head shook from left to right before he allowed his chin to rest in the palm of his hand. “I think you missed every single piece of political commentary in that.”

“Dude, no I didn’t!” Stan proclaimed loudly. “It’s basically ‘Hello Kitty!’ on crack. That’s what it said on the box, even! Explosions, death, slaughtered pigs—sick dude!”

“That’s not the point of it,” Bebe laughed, turning her chair to face the quarrelling duo. “It’s as close to an anti-war statement as you can get.”

“How is it anti-war when there’s nothing but brutal mutilation throughout the thirty-minute duration? I puked twice in it!” Stan asked, jaw slacking slightly. 

“That’s just because you’re a wimp,” Craig had laughed, lips curled upward in amusement. 

“ _TWICE!_ ”

“Both nuclear bombs, brutal executions in Europe mirrored with terrorism in the Middle East, the passing of time—God, don’t you know anything about history?” Bebe had laughed, shaking the tight curls in her hair.

“Does history really matter?” Kenny interrupted. “That was the coolest shit I’ve ever seen, flat out.” The boy offered an unmasked grin, free from the constraint of his parka with the onset of approaching summer. A few weeks after Stan and Kyle joined ‘the nobodies’, the club had gained members and earned the faintest degree of recognition. Kenny had unmistakably joined them for the sake of “doing something,” as did the majority of the few new attending stragglers. 

“It certainly has it’s m-m-mer-m-m-m-merit, fellas,” Jimmy had stuttered, rising with the metallic clang of his crutches. Each constructive movement echoed, ringing through as he moved to the television’s DVD player and ejected the small disc. “N-n-n-now Craig, a-are we going to d-discuss it m-more or move to the next video?” 

Craig had stroked a hand beneath his chin, eyes rotating around the group. “I don’t know. What do you guys want to do?”

“Talk about prom,” Porsche interrupted, face lighting aglow. “I can’t wait!”

“This is anime club, not prom committee-” Craig interrupted only to be cut back.

“But this is the most important time of our high school lives! You’re only saying that because you have a date to prom already. You just don’t care,” she protested. Craig’s right brow quirked, eyes glancing once in Clyde’s direction, then back at Porsche.

“You don’t have a date yet, Porsche?” Craig asked slowly, despite Clyde’s violent horizontal headshakes. Because no. She was beautiful, but not ight.

“Not yet because knucklehead hasn’t asked me yet,” she said, foot extending to nudge Kenny’s leg. Kenny grinned, right eye lowering in the slightest of a wink. 

“Didn’t know you’d say yes.”

“Of course I would,” she drawled slowly, a tongue gliding out briefly to dampen her upper lip. 

“Oh lucky,” Bebe said with the faintest of a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ll be one of the last people to get a date to the dance, not that it’s very important or anything.”

“You don’t have a date?” Craig shot in her direction as his new target for Clyde was acquired. 

“Well no. I mean, I don’t think that time should be wasted on just a single dance that’s just highlighted by a bunch of teenage movies. I mean, do I really need to buy a three-hundred-dollar dress? I’m honestly not _that_ cosmetic. Wendy spends way more time on her appearance than me, even.” Her voice cut off with a slight laugh. “Besides, three-hundred-bucks could cover an entire anime convention, speaking of which, if we get ten people to commit, we should be able to get a club discount.”

Craig glanced at Clyde, and Clyde bit his lip. Bebe was kind of cool. Smarter than people knew. Fun.

“… would you have any objection to going?” Clyde tested, speaking for the first time since his initial greetings to club. Craig’s face lit up with encouragement.

“Well,” Bebe paused, head tilting in consideration. “-no. Of course not.” 

Clyde’s shoulders tensed, head turning to gaze at Craig. His lips formed the slight widening circle in a plea for “help” as he bunched his hands into smallish fists.

“W-w-well now, Bebe-” 

The room fell silent as Jimmy stumbled over his words, yet Bebe was patient, offering the faintest of a smile. Clyde’s mouth contorted in the strains of speech, larynx muting him.

“W-w-w-I w-w-w-was h-hoping t-that perhaps you would l-l-lii-l-l-liiii-l-l-like to go to th-the prom with me?” 

As the smile broadened on Bebe’s face, Clyde’s desperation drained. Craig’s face fell as Bebe said, “I’d love to go with you, Jimmy. We’ll have a blast.”

Forfeit.

***

Nobodies became somebodies as the somebodies joined the nobodies, or so Craig equated as he looked up from his lunch to find his table filled. “What are you doing here?” he asked Bebe as she sank into a chair next to Jimmy.

“I’m not allowed to sit here?” she asked, brows quirking. “I thought we were all friends now with anime club and prom.”

“We are?” Craig asked, yelping as Jimmy slammed one of his crutches against his calf. 

“C-craig, that was-was-wasn’t very nice.” 

The tower of their history was uneven, precarious to tumbling lest the support give way. The keystone groaned, a mild reluctance. 

“Bebe’s okay. They’re not,” he said, a short gesture to the right end of the table where Stan, Kyle, and Kenny chatted in loud domain, shortly joined by Cartman. “Who invited them?”

“No one. I think they just like you,” Token reasoned, head turning as he observed the group. “They’re really not _that_ bad.”

“I know. And I want to keep it that way.” His eyes studied the present company before his shoulders lifted then dropped. “Ten bucks anime club has at least three ‘noobs’ this week.”

“You’re on, Craig,” Token agreed.

Token was ten dollars short in change.

***

The students of South Park always looked for an opportunity to skip school, however it wasn’t anticipated for Garisson to call a field trip to the mall for the students to look for dresses and tuxes. “Don’t look at me like I’ve grown two heads, for crying out loud-” he had snorted. “I can be nice on occasion.”

The room was full of commotion ranging from the students bubbling with excitement for their big moment while the others sulked, unable to find dates or generally disliking the vibes in association with prom.

“Dude, relax man,” laughed Token clapping Tweek on the shoulder as he took the window seat. The sporadic Tweek sat next to him sandwiched by Craig on the aisle across from Clyde and Jimmy. “Getting a tux isn’t _that_ bad.”

“That’s just what they want you to think!” Tweek stammered, head jerking to the side. “They want you to think it’s fun and games, that it’s cosmetic apparel. It’s a ploy against the machine for consumer America! Soon it’ll be straight jackets they’re marketing for vocational activities!”

“Man, you really should _not_ watch horror films before bed,” Token laughed.

“I _don’t!_ Ghraaaah!” Hands sifted down the front of his shirt, gripping onto the green fabric as it bunched and released in his fingers. 

“Token’s right. You need to chill,” Craig said, fingertips smoothing along the blond’s knee before his palm turned over. Accepting the invitation, the smaller, quivering hand linked with the other’s and squeezed. Head lowered in a nod, Craig’s head turned across the aisle. “You’re still coming to prom, right?” he asked Clyde. Clyde’s shoulders lifted in the faintness of a yes. 

“I don’t think I have much of a choice.” He dampened his lips with the end of his tongue before offering a weaker smile. “Besides, I can go alone.”

“You should get a date. I’m sure you could get any girl if you just grew some more balls.”  
“Y-yeah Clyde. I mean, you’re an awfully good f-fella an’ I certainly don’t see w-wh-wh-why you don’t have a date already,” Jimmy grandly encouraged.

“Doubtful,” Clyde started, rubbing the back of his wrists. “Look, can we talk about something different?” he murmured, a hand smoothing over the back of his neck. 

“…okay,” Craig murmured. “…what do you want to talk about?”

“Nothing.”

Silence never seemed so sweet.

***

Perversion was one of Craig’s specialties, and by perversion, he really meant doting harassment. Amused, the lecherous smirk on his face didn’t threaten to budge. Tweek squirmed as he stood on a stool in the men’s dressing room at After Hours, fidgeting in his underwear. His eyes darted from the left to the right as the dresser moved around his body as he stretched the measuring tape against his skin.

“Having fun, Tweek?” Craig jaunted, lower lip protruding slightly. 

“Gah! Do I look like I’m having fun?” the boy protested with the slightest of a whine. “It’s a conspiracy. They’ll be coming. I _know_ it. They’ll get my underpants! I hate it, I hate it! They’ll get them then I’ll be left here naked and helpless and gah! How long does it take?” he whined, head lowering in a plea to the dresser.

“A lot longer if you don’t stop moving,” the man replied, jotting down the inches upon his notepad. 

“Gyaaah!” 

“It could go a helluva lot faster if you wore a dress, Tweek,” Craig teased.

“AGH! NO!” 

Craig’s torso folded, laughter echoing from the depths of his stomach. “You’re pathetic.”

“Just a little bit longer—we’ll see what we have in size for you,” the man finally announced, offering a smile to the boy. “You can get off the stool if you want.”

“Oh thank God!” he proclaimed, scrambling off of the metal disc. His bare feet pressed upon the floor, toes wriggling. “Jesus, this is way too much pressure getting a tux. Why does this all matter anyway?”

“You want to look nice for it, don’t you?” 

“…this isn’t going to be like our metro-sexual phase, right?”

Craig snorted, head shaking twice. “Don’t remind me. Pink jumpsuits and triangles—what the hell was I thinking?” 

“Your hair looked nice,” Tweek replied, the soft faintness of a smile offered for a fleeting moment before it dissolved into the worried lines that constituted his face once the man entered the room again.

“Sir, it appears that your size isn’t very common…”

“What do you mean by that?” Tweek squeaked, voice elevating in pitch.

“Well, it appears that we don’t have many tuxedos your size,” the started before pausing, a hand stroking by the tips to his moustache. “Alterations will be a lot for the tuxedo you were looking at, but if you were to go with a children’s size we could find you an extra tall and you would be set.”

“Children’s?” Tweek shrieked. “I’m seventeen! Oh Jesus, why the hell do I need children’s? I don’t look that young, do I?”

“No, no. It’s just… your size. You’re small, not so much a problem with height but weight taken into account-”

“Jesus! This is a product of consumer America, isn’t it? I knew it! There was a reason why Super Sized meals were created. The fabric industry’s trying to take over! They probably work with the Underpants Gnomes and gah! I’m going to DIE! We’re all going to be DEAD!” 

“Give him the men’s tuxedo-” Craig interrupted. “ _I’ll_ pay for alterations.”

“Are you certain? The boys’ size is much more cost efficient-”

“I’d like to keep the same motif as my date for prom.”

The man’s head nodded in a quick jerk, coughing once as he walked out from the dressing room. “Right away, sir. You may get dressed now if you’d like. Alterations should be complete in three days.” 

The blond gazed at Craig uncertainly. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of money.”

“I’m positive. After all… it’s supposed to be the biggest moment of our high school lives according to Porsche, right?”  
Tweek gripped his slacks and tugged them on before nudging Craig in the side. “Afterward, I want to spend the night with you.”

“We are.”

“I mean alone.”

Silence. 

“Hey Craig-” Clyde called loudly, waving as he drew a tuxedo toward his body. “What do you think?”

“Sure,” Craig replied, not specifying to whom.


End file.
